


Let The World Slip

by Crowgirl



Series: Welcoming Silences [57]
Category: Foyle's War
Genre: Canon Era, Established Relationship, Gen, M/M, Post-Slash, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-27 07:56:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12076839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: It's when Paul limps visibly that Foyle finds he has the most trouble.





	1. Chapter 1

It’s when Paul limps visibly that Foyle finds he has the most trouble.

When Paul first comes back to work, of course, he has a cane and Foyle simply learns to adjust his stride; it isn’t particularly difficult and Paul is distracted enough by the cane itself that Foyle doesn’t think he notices. In any case, Paul has a good six inches on him; Foyle would need to brisk up his step regardless.

After a few months, the cane disappears. The first time Foyle really takes note of this is when he comes out of the Gascoigne house to find Paul leaning against the bonnet of the car, his eyes fixed on something in the distance. He looks pale enough to be sick and for a minute all Foyle can think is that the crime scene hadn’t been _that_ bad. 

Of course, that isn’t the problem and Paul’s color starts to come back as soon as Foyle gets him to sit down. 

After that, it becomes automatic to take note of Paul’s gait, try and guess whether his knee is hurting him or might start soon. As time passes, Foyle finds he gets better and better at this, to the point where he can be accurate to within fifteen minutes of when Paul will need a chair.

Whether or not he can get Paul to _admit_ the fact is a different issue. On most occasions, unless it comes naturally in the course of whatever they’re doing, Paul will adamantly refuse any suggestion that has to do with his particular comfort. So Foyle looks for ways to suggest without suggesting.

Over enough days at work and enough dinners in his kitchen, Foyle learns that if he sits down first, Paul will follow suit and if Foyle is not paying attention, Paul will find ways to ease his leg -- a careful lean against a doorjamb, one foot up on a step. So Foyle learns not to pay attention.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Foyle is close enough to catch Paul’s arm almost as soon as he misses his step.

Foyle is close enough to catch Paul’s arm almost as soon as he misses his step but that isn’t soon enough to keep Paul’s left foot from slipping off the edge of the pavement. Foyle can’t see but he guesses from Paul’s sharp inhale that either the slip or the impact has made the prosthetic twist. Paul lurches forward, catching his weight on his good right leg, and steadies himself. 

Foyle waits, holding steady so Paul can find his balance again; there had been a brief lull in the foot traffic on the pavement behind him and he hears it resume now. Wartime London on a rare air-raid free night, even with poor weather, has no time for a man who has simply slipped.

‘All right?’

Paul tests his left foot against the ground gingerly and tries another step. He jolts forward and Foyle catches his arm. ‘No -- no -- definitely not.’

‘I don’t know what the hell you thought you were doing with those dress shoes anyway--’ Foyle mutters as he turns to catch the cab driver before he pulls away from the curb. The driver is still there, peering anxiously out of his window; he nods before Foyle can say anything and reaches back to shove the rear door open.

Paul catches the top of the car door, stepping down into the slush on the street with an absolute disregard for trouser cuffs or shoe leather. ‘You go on. I can get back to the hotel.’

‘You must be joking!’ Foyle stares at him but even in the dimmed lamplight, it is clear Paul is not joking.

‘You were the one who was invited -- if you don’t show up, people will wonder why.’ Paul gives him a look, then swings himself into the back seat of the cab and pulls the door shut. ‘If anyone notices I’m not there just --’

‘I’ll say something came up at the last minute.’ Foyle pushes his hands deep into his coat pockets to keep from opening the car door. 

‘Fine.’ Paul nods, rolls the window up, and leans forward to speak to the cab driver.

Foyle stays where he is on the pavement until the cab is invisible in traffic, then turns to the front steps of the hotel.

* * *

Foyle makes it two hours in the ballroom and considers it a job well-done. He fails to see the Commissioner weaving towards him with yet another important person of some kind or other under his arm, nearly bumps into Hilda Pierce in getting to the cloakroom -- she seems utterly unsurprised to see him and just nods before going her own ways -- and gets out to the cabstand before anyone can call his name.

* * *

‘I thought you’d make it at least another hour.’

Foyle closes and locks the hotel room door behind himself before answering. He allows himself a moment of relief that the evening is over and done with, then drops the key into his pocket and shrugs out of his overcoat. ‘You overestimate my store of small talk.’

Paul laughs, although it sounds tired and drawn a little thin. ‘I don’t think that’s possible.’

Foyle hangs his coat and hat next to Paul’s on the neat wooden stand behind the door and turns around. The prosthetic is tucked back against the head of the bed and Paul’s black tie has been discarded in various spots around the room: the trousers and jacket together on a chair, the tie draped over the doorknob into the bathroom. Paul has built himself a redoubt of pillows on the near side of the bed and is sitting up against them, the top sheet pulled over his legs. To judge from the line of the sheet, he has his left knee propped up on something.

Paul follows his gaze and makes a face. ‘Sorry. I had to steal one of yours.’ He lifts himself forward off the stack of pillows and feels it, then lets himself sit back. ‘Both of yours.’

‘I’m sure you haven’t done them any harm.’ Foyle drops his jacket on top of Paul’s and comes to sit cautiously on the edge of the bed. For the first time, he wishes he had damned the budget and gotten a room with two beds but-- Paul, grinning at him like a schoolboy planning a prank, had agreed with him at the time that finances were absolutely more important than any discomfort the two of them might have to put up with; it's certainly worked out in their favor before.

The dip of the mattress under his weight makes Paul wince and Foyle makes to stand up, but Paul leans forward and catches his forearm. ‘Please don’t. It’s -- it’ll be fine. Just -- give it a minute.’

Foyle lets himself sink back as slowly as he can and contemplates how much he dislikes it when Paul starts referring to his body as ‘it.’ 

Moving leaves Paul with the sheet in loose folds around his hips. Leaning back against the pillows with his shirt unbuttoned, he looks, Foyle thinks, like a very particular kind of pin-up. If Foyle didn’t know the languor came from pain, the whole thing would be most attractive. But the silence in the room is starting to feel wooden, so he clears his throat and, as gently as he can, touches the edge of the pillow under Paul’s knee.

Paul’s sharp inhalation tells him what he needs to know but he asks the question anyway. ‘Is it bad?’

‘It’s --’ Paul pauses, clearly weighing words and Foyle sighs involuntarily, anticipating the dance of words they’re going to have to do before Paul will simply break down and admit he’s in pain. Paul’s eyes flick up to his face and some thought Foyle can’t read changes his expression. ‘Yes. It hurts like a bastard.’

Foyle waits a moment, as much to make sure Paul is done speaking as to give himself a moment to catch up. ‘Do you need to go to hospital?’

Paul shakes his head. ‘I just -- gave it a good twist, that’s all. The -- damn socket shifted.’ He rubs at his thigh and adds, ‘The bruise is going to be spectacular.’

‘Did you get yourself ice or a hot water bottle?’

Paul shakes his head again. ‘It was as much as I could do to get upstairs.’ 

Foyle bites back the words that rise in immediate response -- why on _earth_ had he allowed Paul to talk him into going to that ridiculous party and coming back to the hotel on his own -- and gets up.

* * *

When he returns to the room, empty hot water bottle tucked under his arm and an ice bag pillowed on a towel in both hands, Paul is leaning back against the pillows with his eyes closed. He has the heel of one hand pressed against the muscle of his left thigh, as though he had been trying to ease it by rubbing.

If the ice doesn’t work, Foyle promises himself, he’ll go back out -- there must be still such a thing as a late-night chemist’s in London -- and find some arnica oil. The stuff smelled atrocious but worked wonders, in his memory at least. 

He drops the hot water bottle on the bedside table and Paul’s eyes snap open. He takes in the ice bag and smiles. ‘Who did you have to bribe to get that?’

‘Almost no-one,’ Foyle says and gestures with his elbow. ‘The towel’s good and thick so you won’t want the sheet.’

Paul touches the sheet and hesitates visibly. ‘There are much simpler ways of getting me to take my clothes off.’

‘And when you’re not in pain, I’ll try some of them. Off.’ 

Paul purses his lips but says nothing else and flips the sheet back. 

Foyle knows his expressions are more or less transparent to Paul at this point but he does his best to keep an expression that at least _feels_ neutral on his face. Paul’s knee is already bruising black and purple, as if someone had clapped a palmful of paint on his skin. The knee itself is swollen as if someone had inflated the joint and forgotten the rest of the leg. The skin of the stump is red, raw although not bloody in one spot where, Foyle assumes, the edge of the prosthetic cut in.

Foyle weighs the ice bag in his hand and, as carefully as he can, flattens it out and lays it over Paul’s knee. He tucks the end of the towel under Paul’s thigh to hold the ice in place and, his hand still on the towel, looks at Paul’s face. ‘All right?’

Paul’s mouth is tight and his eyebrows drawn together as though he wants to frown but won’t let himself. He nods. ‘It will be. Give it a minute.’

‘Gladly.’ Foyle gets up and locks the door again, then turns his attention to divesting himself of the more uncomfortable bits of black tie, starting with the tie itself.

‘It’s a pity,’ Paul says, his tone deliberately conversational.

‘What is?’ Foyle leaves the tie in the collar of the shirt -- the whole thing will have to go to the cleaners anyway and he’s too tired to care very much.

‘I was really looking forward to seeing you in that.’

‘What?’ Foyle turns back, undoing the last buttons on the waistcoat. ‘In what?’

Paul smiles at him and the corners of his mouth are still tight but the expression looks genuine enough. ‘All done up. Being made much of by the high and mighty.’

Foyle snorts and shrugs the waistcoat off. ‘It isn’t much of a way to pass an evening.’ 

‘Maybe not -- but it isn’t every night I get the chance to take black tie off you.’

Foyle starts and feels himself blush. Even after two years, he still isn’t entirely used to Paul’s casual -- enthusiastic, even -- enjoyment of his body. He’d never had any doubt that Rosalind found him attractive but she’d never _spoken_ of it as such; certainly never teased him with it that he remembers. Paul makes it a much more common thing between them, usually when they’re alone: stroking his fingers over Foyle’s when passing him tea, or putting a hand on his knee when they sit side by side reading, continual small touches that Foyle had first thought was just Paul’s way of grounding himself in this new arrangement of things between them. 

As time has gone by, though, he’s realised there’s something different happening: it’s Paul reminding him -- reminding _both_ of them -- that they touch each other in different ways now -- and Paul being careful Foyle knows that is something he wants. ‘Is it any different from taking off regular clothes?’

‘Well, that’s the thing, you see, I don’t know. I was looking forward to finding out.’ Paul pushes himself up against the pillows and waves at Foyle. ‘In fact, I think you should give me the chance to find out.’

Foyle comes across to the side of the bed and takes Paul’s hand, clasping it between both his own. ‘It’s just a shirt.’

Paul smiles up at him and, with his free hand, reaches over to undo the top two buttons. ‘Yes, but with you in it. Or, rather,’ Paul continues, flicking open buttons as he goes. _‘Out_ of it.’ 

‘Paul.’ 

Foyle puts a hand over his, preventing Paul from undoing the last buttons and Paul looks up with an expression of well-imitated impatience and tilts his head questioningly. ‘Well?’

Foyle finds himself nearly laughing. ‘Your leg--!’

‘Hurts rather badly, yes.’ Paul pulls his hands free and plants them on the mattress, shifting himself so his weight is borne on his right rather than his left hip, then pushes himself sideways into the empty half of the bed.

‘Here--’ Foyle picks up two of the stack of pillows and goes around to the other side of the bed, holding them ready for Paul to prop himself up. Paul nods thanks and resettles the ice bag over his knee, only flinching slightly as he does.

‘Are you sure you--’ Foyle begins, only to have Paul reach up and slip his fingers into the opening of Foyle’s unbuttoned shirt, tugging gently on the fabric to bring Foyle the last step closer against the bedframe. 

‘So, yes, given that there’s not much else I can do for myself at the minute,’ Paul continues, his knuckles brushing warm against Foyle’s abdomen. ‘I would very much appreciate your assistance in distracting myself.’

Foyle starts to laugh -- the whole thing is so ridiculous he can’t help it.

‘What, you think I’m joking? Indulging you after your difficult evening?’ Paul shakes his head and, a little awkwardly, leans forward to kiss just above where his fingertips are. _‘You_ weren’t the one left for the best part of three hours with nothing more to think about than what we _might_ have been able to get up to if he hadn’t taken a bad bloody step.’

‘That is a long time,’ Foyle agrees, slipping his fingers over the back of Paul’s neck and enjoying the reflexive way Paul leans back into his hand, guiding Foyle’s fingers to where they feel good. ‘And it would have been a much better evening with you there.’ 

Paul moves his head, just slightly, so he can look up at Foyle without dislodging Foyle’s hand. ‘Grim?’

‘Unending.’

‘Then let me make the end of it better.’ Paul undoes the last two buttons of Foyle’s shirt and slides his hands underneath the folds of cloth, over the thin layer of vest that separates their skin.

Foyle sighs in mock-resignation and ducks to kiss Paul. He means it to be quick -- a promise of later things -- but Paul doesn’t let him move away so quickly and, by the time they do break apart, Foyle can feel his heart beating faster. ‘Let me get undressed properly at least.’

‘I’m only allowing this,’ Paul says as Foyle steps back and shrugs out of his shirt, ‘because there’s nothing I can do to prevent it.’

Foyle laughs and goes back to sit on the chair and untie his shoes, aware that Paul is watching him and aware, too, that the knowledge sends a tiny spark down his spine, half nerves and half arousal. 

He toes off his shoes, nudging them under the chair and out of the way, and stands up to undo his trouser buttons. He doesn’t look up at Paul until he has stepped out of them, shaken them out, and laid them carefully over the back of the chair. 

‘Come back here,’ Paul says, his voice slightly rough, and Foyle does, easing onto the empty side of the bed as gently as he can. Paul twists towards him, shoving impatiently at the pillow under his knee to keep it in place. 

Foyle reaches out and catches the near corner of the pillow, tugging on it gently to resettle the part closest to him. Paul waits until he’s done, then covers Foyle’s hand with his own, running his fingertips lightly over Foyle’s knuckles, the back of his hand, the rise of his wrist bone.

Foyle shivers and Paul laughs, appreciation mixed with surprise, and Foyle wonders if Paul, too, still feels unused to this. They’ve been sharing Foyle’s bed -- what had been his bed alone and is now much more pleasantly theirs -- for almost ten months and Foyle feels that slight tingle of _unexpected_ every time Paul touches him. It isn’t unpleasant -- he rather likes it as a reminder of the change in their circumstances. 

Paul trails his fingers up to Foyle’s elbow, presses there for a moment, then continues until his fingers hit the shoulder of Foyle’s vest. ‘I thought you said you were getting undressed.’

Foyle has to swallow twice before his throat loosens enough to speak. ‘I thought I’d leave you something to do.’

Paul’s eyes spark, then darken as his pupils expand. He swallows hard, once, and slides his fingers under the edge of the light cloth. ‘You’ll have to sit up, then.’

Foyle pushes himself up on one hand and lets himself be stripped; Paul drops the thin vest somewhere on the floor at his side of the bed and immediately puts his hands back on Foyle’s skin as if taking them off even for that brief amount of time had been too much. 

Foyle catches his wrists, pinning Paul’s hands flat against his chest and Paul looks up at him, tilting his head slightly. ‘You promise not to make your knee worse.’

Paul sighs theatrically. ‘I promise, I promise.’ Foyle releases his hands and he slides them up over Foyle’s breastbone to his shoulders. ‘If that’s your condition, though, you should come a little closer.’

Foyle turns back to turn off the bedside light first, ignoring Paul’s soft noise of complaint. It’s difficult enough for him to undress under scrutiny -- even scrutiny as benign as Paul’s. Anything more, and he’s likely to become too self-conscious for enjoyment. 

In the dimness -- a London hotel room is never going to be as dark as the bedroom in Hastings even in a blackout -- Foyle lets Paul’s hands ease him closer until he’s pressed against Paul’s side, shoulder to hip.

There’s a rustle of cloth as Paul shifts position and his fingers find Foyle’s throat, tracing patterns over his bare skin, then over his chin to his mouth, Paul’s fingertips tracing the outline of his lips until Foyle wants to gasp but before he can Paul’s mouth is on his, allowing him time to breathe and making it impossible to all at once. 

‘...you’re still dressed, too,’ Foyle murmurs when Paul slips back enough for him to talk, his fingers finding the worn cloth of Paul’s pants under the sheet.

Paul makes a rueful noise. ‘I’m afraid those aren’t going anywhere without major effort on my part.’ 

‘And we wouldn’t want that,’ Foyle says, kissing the side of Paul’s throat and slipping his fingertips under the elastic of his waistband at the same time.

Paul takes a quick breath, the muscles of his abdomen tensing against Foyle’s forearm. ‘Who’s seducing whom here?’

Foyle continues his way down Paul’s throat, finding his way by touch and taste to the hollow of his collarbone, the scatter of hair over his breast, and the hard rise of his nipple. He keeps his hand where it is, flat just below Paul’s navel, and lifts his mouth enough to say, ‘I thought I’d make it a joint effort.’

‘Oh, did you.’ Paul sounds amused and slightly breathless which is exactly how Foyle would like to have him and he allows himself the luxury of laving Paul’s nipple with his tongue until Paul is gasping, his hand clutching at Foyle’s shoulder. 

There’s a rustle of cloth and Paul makes a sound of stifled pain, but before Foyle can understand what’s happening, Paul’s mouth is on his again and his hand plucking at the waist of Foyle’s pants. ‘These, I think,’ Paul says, his breath cool over Foyle’s wet lips, ‘can come off quite easily.’ 

Foyle can feel his erection against the folds of cloth. ‘Perhaps not as easily as you think.’

‘Oh, no?’ Paul slips his hand under the elastic and hums in pleasure when he finds Foyle hard, already curving up against the softness of his low belly. Foyle can’t -- and doesn’t try very much -- to stop the involuntary forward press of his hips, pushing himself against Paul’s palm and Paul inhales sharply in response, his own hips twitching forward. ‘Christ, you’re...’

Whatever Paul had been going to say is lost when he starts kissing Foyle again, running his palm slowly up and down his length at the same time until Foyle would curse if he had any breath left. 

‘Wait, wait a minute, wait...’ Paul’s hand is abruptly gone and Foyle wants to complain bitterly about this except he’s busy running his hands over Paul’s sides, his thumb trailing over a shrapnel scar so well healed as to be invisible in daylight, pressing his palms over Paul’s breastbone, and Paul is shifting, twisting himself as if to reach something at the foot of the bed and--

‘Oh.’ Foyle hears his own voice in a moment of clarity when Paul pulls their bodies back together, his pants tugged down along with Foyle’s own so that they press together skin to skin from navel to thigh, the tip of Paul’s cock a damp brush against Foyle’s abdomen. Foyle slides his hand down along Paul’s side -- ribs, abdomen, hip, thigh -- and strokes his thumb up the length of his prick, teasing more moisture out of the head.

 _‘Fuck_ \--’ Paul pushes up against him, tucking his head against Foyle’s shoulder and dragging his fingers down the length of Foyle’s arm, pausing with his fingertips light on the back of Foyle’s hand as Foyle circles Paul’s cock with his fingers, sliding once, loosely, along Paul’s full length, knowing Paul can feel what he’s doing in more than one way, knowing Paul likes this. Knowing that -- feeling Foyle’s hand touch him will make Paul harder, make him leak, make him gasp and choke -- brings Foyle to close his eyes, wrap his other arm around Paul’s shoulder, pull him in as close as he can. 

‘...all right, all right...’ Paul mutters some other words Foyle doesn’t catch and traces his fingers into the spaces between Foyle’s, just brushing the hot skin of his own prick with his knuckles before finding the base of Foyle’s, rubbing his thumb back into the space between Foyle’s thighs. 

‘This is the effect... black tie has on you?’ Foyle says breathlessly, the last word ending in something like a wheeze when Paul wraps his fingers firmly around Foyle’s length.

Paul shakes his head, his soft hair tickling the underside of Foyle’s chin. ‘No, God, no, _oh_ \--’ Foyle smiles into darkness and twists his thumb against the underside of the head of Paul’s cock again. Paul gasps but picks his thread back up. ‘--the effect... _you_ have--’ His voice dies again as their cocks bump together and Foyle is unable to keep himself from pushing forward and _up,_ thrusting himself along the hollow of Paul’s hip.

Paul stretches up and kisses Foyle, kisses him hard and deep as Foyle feels himself start to come in long, wet pulses over the back of his own hand and Paul’s belly. Paul groans into his mouth and presses himself hard against the top of Foyle’s thigh, pushing once, twice, and then coming in a single long arch of his body and a burst of heat against Foyle’s skin. 

* * *

Foyle gets his breath back after a moment, Paul heavy against his shoulder, and wriggles his hand out from between them, tugging a fold of his pants up to mop the worst of the mess off their skin before they can stain the sheets.

A single room with a single bed for a single night can be passed off as tight budgeting and no-one will blink an eye -- indeed, Foyle has gotten complimented for the willingness he and his sergeant have shown to bear the occasional uncomfortable night for the sake of keeping the bills down. A single room with a single bed with stained sheets, on the other hand, could become awkward. 

Foyle twists and Paul mutters something against his shoulder, his free hand coming up to cover Foyle’s hip, pulling them back together.

Foyle laughs quietly, kicking his pants off under the sheet then stretching down to grab them and swipe his hands and Paul’s clean, take a quick wipe at Paul’s belly, then toss the balled up fabric in the same direction his vest had gone. 

‘...very twitchy tonight…’ Paul says, his voice slurring slightly as Foyle resettles himself against the pillows, adjusting himself so Paul can lie flat and straight and they can still touch at as many points as possible.

‘Just trying to get us comfortable,’ Foyle murmurs, leaning down to kiss him again, slow and soft this time. 

Paul sighs against his mouth and fumbles at the pillow under his head until he’s lying in the hollow of Foyle’s shoulder, one hand tucked at the small of Foyle’s back, the other loose and open over Foyle’s stomach. Foyle reaches down and slides their fingers together, closing his eyes and letting the bed take his weight. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _[The Taming of the Shrew](http://www.bartleby.com/70/2103.html)_ , not one of my favorite plays but still.
> 
> Thanks as always to the best of all betas, [elizajane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/elizajane) and [the Lady Kivrin.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kivrin)


End file.
